Psycho Island
by Anonymonimus
Summary: After a two year hiatus following the death of his partner, Sherlock Holmes is back in action with his new partner, Molly Hooper, for whom he has nothing but contempt. Together they must solve the mystery of the escaped mental patient on the island of the Royal Mental Health Hospital and Research Facility of England, also known as Psycho Island.


**After months of struggling with writing fanfiction for this fandom! I have finally done it :DD**

**This is a horror/mystery story heavily based off Shutter Island (I freakin' love that movie) with a few key twists xP**

**It also contains Johnlock and, unlike Shutter Island, takes place in the recent years of our lives (so, like 2010-13)**

**Anyways, I'm not sure whether I'll continue it or not but, if you do want me to keep at it, then review and fav :DD**

**NOW ENJOY THIS DRABBLE!**

* * *

The sun had risen but a few hours ago and though, when waiting for the ferry to arrive on the port, it seemed that it would be a beautiful day, Sherlock quickly came to realize it wouldn't be. The sea was covered in a thick blanket of mist, one could barely see the end of his outstretched arm but the captain navigated through it with ease for he knew the English sea like the back of his hand – as he put it. Sherlock breathed in deeply the salty air to clear his lungs and mind. It was a nice change of pace from how he had spent most of his days before resuming his job as consulting detective for the Scotland Yard. He wasn't made for vegetating mournfully in a depressing house and it was beyond him as his exceptional mind on how he managed to survive for so long.

But he shrugged the thought away. It threatened to bring back memories he would rather expel from his mind but found that he couldn't.

Familiar steps resonated behind him, making way to him. The shy and quiet manner in which they advanced indicated it was the woman Scotland Yard and forced him to entertain as she was meant to take the place of his previous partner. Her name was Molly and, from what she had explained nervously earlier, she used to work in Forensics and decided she'd had enough and wished to do something else. She was evidently new in her post, her posture screamed discomfort as did her habit of anxiously rubbing her hands all the while darting her eyes at everything and everyone. All in all, she annoyed Sherlock to no end. He knew he would have to babysit her and guide her through every little detail which was something he'd rather not do. Her only positive quality was that she obeyed the second he ordered her to do something.

_It's better than nothing._ He sighed mentally. He would have continued to ignore her presence but he had been raised properly and so he was obliged to make polite conversation and appear pleasant or, at least, to a degree, sociable. "I see you've finished spilling the contents of your stomach into she ship's lavatory." But Sherlock never felt the need to act kindly with her or anyone for that matter. "You should have taken some medicine to prevent such a disgraceful thing."

Molly blushed, embarrassed by the latter's remark and belated advice. She looked at her feet as though they would provide her with a witty comeback or an excuse to salvage what remaining pride she had left but to no vale. "Sorry." She apologized flatly and quietly, "I was told the boat wouldn't rock as much as it is and should be fine…I suppose they were wrong."

"Might I ask who 'they' are?" Sherlock queried.

"…The captain." She answered, feeling more embarrassed.

"Of course." Sherlock sighed again.

He reached into his pocket and fished out a humid pack of cigarettes. For a moment, he worried that the cigarettes would be as humid as the pack and therefore useless but, luckily, they weren't. He popped one in his mouth, very conscious about Molly staring at him with wide eyes, and pulled out his lighter. Unfortunately, his lighter was empty of fuel and thus, Sherlock found himself unable to feed his addiction. Angrily, he threw both the lighter and the cigarette into the ocean, cursing as the boat ran them both over.

"I was told you quitted smoking." Molly said after a moment of silence.

"Yes and, as you can see, I've started again." Sherlock growled, glaring at the mist.

"Is it because of what happened?" Molly asked, "With your previous partner, I mean."

Sherlock tensed. He leaned on the railing, clutching at it so hard his knuckles lost their colors. Unbeknown to Molly or anyone who would have observed the scene, he was trying to fight the memory which lead him to waste away in a lonely house for two years. And yet, persistent flashes of moments still appeared in his mind. He saw his apartment, then his grand piano burning, and the love of his life smile at him from beneath the gazebo near the lake of the cabin.

"What does it matter?" Sherlock finally said, speaking to forget what was trying to resurface.

"Well," She began, "If you've taken up old habits, doesn't that mean a part of you is unstable?"

"Or weak." Sherlock added.

"But you're not weak." Molly persisted, approaching with a few steps, "I've heard of your grandeur and exceptional mind. I've seen it in action a few times as well, though you probably don't remember, and I know that the great Sherlock Holmes isn't weak."

"And so you think I'm unstable?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"W-well, no…" Molly mumbled, flustered, "Rather troubled…or still affected by what happened."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, glowering and wondering if he should just show her mercy and accept her insensibility and bluntness – though he wasn't quite in the position to criticize that aspect of her. He had always been told that he shared the same flaws as her and more. "I assure you, Molly," Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back at the curtain of mist before them, "That I'm in perfect control of my mind and emotions. They will not impair my judgment during this investigation, there is no need for you to worry."

"Then…well…" she said aimlessly and paused. "I was thinking if you talked about it, what happened, maybe it would help. B-but you don't need to. I just want you to know that, if you ever need to speak to someone, I'm here."

Sherlock stared quietly at the fog, seemingly becoming thicker as the boat progressed, and thought about Molly's proposition. He didn't feel the need what so ever to talk about what had happened and why it had plunged him into a depression for two years but then, he found he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"Two years ago." He started suddenly, startling Molly. "Two years ago…my partner was killed in a fire. He was my part-time partner and roommate, he tried to find jobs where he could work as a doctor but was always fired because I exhausted him with work. I suppose he was on the internet when it happened. He was probably none the wiser and who can blame it? Even I wasn't expecting it." He clutched the railing again and breathed in deeply. "At the time, I was working on a case where the victim was brutally beaten before burned. The prime suspect was Jim Moriarty who was later convicted for his crimes. He was a paranoid man, schizophrenic, suffered from split personality, but worst of all, pyromaniac. It was around the end of the case when he found our apartment. He had been released from custody, not having found sufficient proof at the time to keep him incarcerated, and I was looking for him, positive he would act again and he could be apprehended committing the crime. He found my home and must have heard my partner moving around inside and thought it was me." Sherlock's throat tightened as he approached the story's horrific conclusion. "He barricaded the door and made sure to destroy all exits from our flat. Then, he covered those same exits with oil and set them on fire." Then there was a moment of silence during which Sherlock remembered the flaming building. "I don't know what he was doing at the time…but when he noticed what happened, it was far too late. He died, burned to a crisp and I couldn't save him."

"What was his name?" Molly asked.

"His name…" Sherlock began, but he never finished his sentence. The mist suddenly lifted and before them stood a massive island with large buildings sticking above the tree line.

The captain, who had been previously driving the boat, left his post to come speak with his two passengers. "Mister Holmes and Miss Hooper!" he greeted with forced jolliness. "As you can see, we're moments from arriving to Psycho Island—"

"You mean, the isolated Royal Mental Health Hospital and Research Facility of England." Sherlock corrected immediately, he didn't like the nickname those who knew about it gave it.

"Aye," the captain dismissed quickly, "There's a storm brewing and I'd rather not be caught in it so I'd appreciate if you'd take your things and exit the vessel quickly."

"Of course." Sherlock said as he criticized the captain's choice of words when describing his floating pile of junk.

Once the ship dock, Sherlock made quick business of carrying his luggage while Molly struggled with hers. For some reason, her bag was twice as large as Sherlock's and seemed to be on the verge of bursting. They were only staying on the island for three days and thus Sherlock had packed accordingly whereas Molly seemed to be ready to stay there for a month or two.

They were then greeted by one of the parole officers present who lead a small search party along the coast. However, at the given point, it seemed as though they had all given up and decided to seat themselves around the ocean, poking at the water with sticks. The officer stood tall and proud before them both, there was a smug allure to him and Sherlock could tell he didn't like him at all.

"Officer Anderson, here to great." He stated with authority.

"Yes. We can tell." Sherlock darted back immediately, glaring at Anderson. He didn't like him either.

"Excuse him." Molly hurriedly said, "He hasn't had his cigarette yet."

"Of course," Anderson snorted, "That definitely justifies his tone."

"If you're done wasting our time, Anderson—"

"_Officer_ Anderson." He corrected immediately.

"I don't care." Sherlock responded without missing a beat, "If you're done wasting our time, would you please lead us to Dr. Lestrade the head of this institution?"

Anderson glared at Sherlock but refrained from continuing their petty argument. With a heavy sigh, he led the way to one of the cars waiting for them, not far from the port. He helped Molly with her bags and started the car once they were all seated.

"Were you searching for the escapee?" Molly asked, gazing out the window at the troop of searchers.

"Yes." Anderson answered bitterly. "But a storm's about to hit and we've all but given up finding her."

"What poor motivation." Sherlock remarked, "No wonder the convict escaped. If your workers took their jobs more seriously, maybe security wouldn't be lacking."

"Thank you, Mister Holmes." Anderson growled, clutching the steering wheel of the car. "We will be sure to give them a good talking to once this matter is resolved."

"I doubt it'll work." Sherlock sneered.

"C-could you tell us how this happened, then?" Molly asked, desperate to light the mood, "How did the prisoner—"

"Patient, Molly." Sherlock corrected immediately. "This isn't a prison, it's a Hospital and a research facility. The residents here are either idiots who couldn't find a job elsewhere, researchers or patients."

"R-right." Molly stuttered, "Sorry. How did the patient escape? What was her name?"

"Her name was Irene Adler." Anderson explained, irritated by the statement Sherlock previously made. "Now, I wasn't present at the time but—"

"Then we shall here none of it." Sherlock interrupted. "We deal with facts, not mouth to ear gossip."

"These are facts, Mister Holmes—"

"No they aren't." Sherlock concurred, "I don't want to hear what you've been told or heard from others; I want to listen to the people present or the head of this facility himself. Now please drive in silence and don't speak, only stupidity leaves that mouth of yours."

"Sherlock!" Molly reproached, unable to ignore his sour attitude towards Anderson any longer.

"What?"

The rest of the drive was passed in silence. Molly refused to make any more friendly conversation with Anderson knowing Sherlock would only ruin the pleasantry with rude and sour comments. Thus, like Sherlock, she stared out the window, contemplating the case and observing the trees as they passed by. There wasn't much to see. Aside from the top of the buildings visible from the port, there seemed to be nothing else – save for the light house on the far left of the island.

As Sherlock began to think the island couldn't get any duller, he noticed a stone monument next to the left side of the road. _Just know that this too shall pass _it read and Sherlock only thought it to be more peculiar.

Soon they arrived at the front entrance which was guarded by six armed men with two trained dogs who persisted to bark loudly even as the car sped away. Once they passed the first gate, the dense vegetation they had been seeing up to that point died immediately. The trees were separated by five perfect meters, the grass was equally cut and maintained, the few bushes scattered here and there were trimmed neatly. It was the liveliest thing they had seen so far and would probably the only beautiful thing they ever saw on the island.

When they reached the second gate, the other side of which contained the only buildings on the island, Anderson had them exit from the car much to the annoyance of Sherlock. "Alright," he said, standing before them, "Pass this point, you are ordered to obey protocol – especially you Mister Holmes. We've heard of your disregards for rules and laws. On the other side of this gate, there will be mentally unstable people roaming about freely. And though they are judged to be harmless, they can act unexpectedly for no reason. For that reason, you will be forced to walk about the grounds of the Royal Mental Health Hospital and Research Facility with an armed guard without exception. Is that clear?"

They both answered with short nods.

"Good," Anderson continued, and Sherlock noticed the cockiness rising, "Aside from that, you will need to surrender all fire arms and other weapons to me during your stay here. Once it is done, they will be returned to you, but up to that point they will remain in our custody."

"What good would that do?" Sherlock asked rhetorically for the most part, "Your security is clearly lacking what with a patient having escaped. If you intend to lock the weapons away for security measures, I assure you that she will most likely be able to enter the room regardless and take whatever she desires."

"That's lovely Mister Holmes," Anderson replied dryly, "But Irene Adler hasn't been spotted within the vicinity of the Hospital and Research Facility grounds and so, I assure you, your weapons will be out of her reach."

"I highly doubt that." Sherlock stated.

"This is part of the protocol Mister Holmes." Anderson growled, "You are welcome to argue with it but that's a matter that will have to be debated on the main island in a court of law. If you want to access these grounds, you will have to surrender all weapons to me."

"Just do it, Sherlock." Molly whispered as he unclipped her gun from her belt and handed it to Anderson. "Does pepper spray count as well?"

"Yes it does." Anderson answered.

After glaring at the officer for a few moments, Sherlock found himself cooperating regardless and handing his gun and baton to Anderson who seemed more smug than ever, having one an argument with the great Sherlock Holmes.

"Now," Anderson said, handing the weapons to a nearby guard as to have him deal with storing them, "Welcome to the Royal Mental Hospital and Research Facility of England."

The gates opened and they followed Anderson as he led them a few steps within the grounds. It was as neatly kept as the garden between the first and second gates but had more flowers and people roaming about. The patients were easily distinguishable from the researchers, doctors and nurses. They wore white coats with long sleeve, beneath they had grey long sleeve shirts made of wool. The men had gray matching pants whereas the women had the same colored skirts hanging down to their ankles. The patients also wore cuffs though Sherlock deduced they were released from them indoors.

It was an odd display, really. Some of the patients racked fallen leaves, others trimmed bushes – or attempted to for the blades of the trimmers were blunted – while their supervisors stood a few feet away, noting things down on their clipboards. Some others sat on benches or beneath trees while chatting with doctors or nurses who secretly studied their mental health. And yet, everything still seemed very serene.

"Listen up," Anderson said, pointing to his left, "That building right there is Ward A. It's the female Ward and from where Irene Adler escaped." Then he pointed to his right, "And that's Ward B, for the men." He gestured the building behind him as he said: "This is the main building where doctors and researches mainly work behind desks and labs, discussing their findings and the mental health of the patients under their watch. That same building doubles as their apartments and is where the two of you will be staying. Further behind that same building is the private home of Greg Lestrade, head of this Facility and the one you shall be speaking to shortly."

"What about that building over there?" Molly asked, gesturing a gloomy building considerably further away from the surrounding buildings.

"That's Ward C." Anderson answered, "I don't think you'll need to go there but that's where we keep our most dangerous patients. Those who can't mingle with the others without starting an uprising or a blood bath."

"What do you do with the patients in Ward C?" Sherlock asked, genuinely interested in how such dangerous patients were managed.

"Nothing too special." Anderson shrugged, "They're relatively treated the same but secluded and under heavier security. They're also, for the most part, people who've been convicted for atrocious murders and were deemed unfit to be kept in England's Federal prisons." There was a pause as Anderson led the way to the main building but stopped in the midst of his tracts as he remembered something, "Actually, Mister Holmes." He said, facing him, "I believe you know one of the patients in Ward C."

"Do I?" Sherlock asked, blatantly uninterested.

"Jim Moriarty." Anderson smirked and Sherlock froze immediately.

"What's he doing here?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Killed three of his cell mates and two guards in prison." Anderson answered with a sick pleasure. "Gruesome story really, he was found sitting in a pile of their blood, having drawn tattoos on himself with it. After that he was sent to solitary confinement for a month while they evaluated his sanity and then sent him here."

Sherlock looked over at Ward C with the deepest hatred. He knew Moriarty was insane but, after having been sent to a Federal prison where the worst criminals were held in custody, he had hoped and even prayed that he would eventually be killed by the other inmates. What twisted fate it was to find themselves nearly reunited then, two years after their first meeting.

"He hasn't forgotten about you, you know." Anderson unnecessarily added. "We put him in a jacket and he spends most of his days sitting in a corner, singing in different voices about how he burned your apartment and killed you."

"I'm not dead." Sherlock growled.

"Rumor has it you nearly were." Anderson smirked.

"Enough." A stranger interrupted. He was dressed cleanly and stood upright, hands behind his back as he belittled Anderson with his stare. "That's unnecessary, Anderson."

"Sorry, Mister Lestrade." He apologized immediately.

Lestrade shook his head in his direction before moving on to Sherlock and Molly. "I hope the trip wasn't too rough?" he asked, extending his hand to greet.

"It was fine, thank you." Sherlock said, taking it firmly. "I do hope you'll be able to enlighten us for our investigation."

"I will do my best to provide you with as much information as I can." Lestrade said, "Now if you'll just follow me, we'll retire to my quarters while Anderson brings your luggage to where you'll be staying."

Lestrade strutted away rapidly with Molly chasing after him while Anderson begrudgingly complied with the orders given to him. Sherlock dallied for a moment, his eyes fixated on Ward C. He could almost hear Jim Moriarty's voice singing sickly.

_I killed him,_

_I burned him,_

_And now he's dead!_

_Sherlock is dead!_


End file.
